Page 29 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

12

Wil

Ijump at the unexpected knock on my apartment door. It's my first day off in almost two weeks, and I wasn't expecting visitors. Maybe it's a package delivery, or Gisele forgot her keys again—something she does with alarming regularity despite my suggestions about a spare hidden somewhere.

"Coming," I call, setting aside my laptop where I've spent the morning researching high-risk multiple pregnancies.

The statistics and medical recommendations swim before my eyes, a blur of terrifying possibilities and slim odds. The Internet doesn’t sugarcoat anything. Quintuplets face significant risks. Premature birth is almost guaranteed, as are low birth weights, along with potential developmental delays, and a host of possible complications, and that's not even considering the maternal risks that include preeclampsia, gestational diabetes, and placental issues. The list goes on, each possibility more daunting than the last.

I take a fortifying sip of ginger tea, the only thing that seems to help with the constant nausea, before heading to the door. The smell of toast from breakfast still lingers in the apartment, a reminder of the few foods I can currently tolerate.

When I swing it open, the world tilts sideways.

Maxim stands in my hallway, looking even more handsome than I remember. He's impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that screams expensive tailoring, clean-shaven, and completely unexpected. His presence in my modest apartment building feels like some strange collision of universes that were never meant to intersect.

"Wil." His voice is exactly as I remember, deep and lightly accented.

I grip the doorframe tightly. "How did you find me?" Dumb question. He must have my address since he sent a rosebush. Even unsigned, I knew it had to come from him. Why didn’t that worry me more at the time? I guess the plant distracted me, and I had still been caught in a postcoital hangover.

Instead of answering, he moves forward with an intensity that makes me instinctively back up. I retreat into my apartment, and he follows uninvited, closing the door behind him. Something about his fluid movements reminds me of a predator, being both graceful and dangerous.

He looks jarringly out of place among my secondhand furniture and collection of houseplants. The man from the luxury hotel suite now stands in my tiny living room where the ceiling fan wobbles when set above medium speed, and the couch has a permanent indent from Gisele's movie marathon sessions. His expensive watch probably costs more than three months of my rent.

"I need to speak with you," he says, his gaze taking in every detail of my space with unsettling thoroughness.

I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly conscious of the baggy T-shirt and yoga pants I'm wearing. "About what?"

"First, I should introduce myself properly." He stands taller, shoulders squaring. "My name is not Maxim. It's Makari Vorobev."

The name means nothing to me, but something in the way he says it—expecting recognition—makes me tremble. "You lied about your name?" My voice rises slightly. It's hardly the worst thing a one-night stand could lie about, but it stings, nonetheless.

"Yes." He doesn't flinch from the admission. "I'mpakhan—the head—of most of the RussianBratvain New York."

I stare at him blankly for a moment before the words register fully. RussianBratva. The Mafia. The realization makes me gasp. I've slept with a mobster, and I'm carrying a mobster's children. "That's not funny," I say, hoping desperately that this is some bizarre joke.

"I'm not attempting humor." His expression remains serious. "I know about the pregnancy, Wil. About the quintuplets."

My hand moves protectively to my still-flat stomach, a reflexive gesture I can't control. Fear replaces shock as thoughts whirl through my mind. How long has he been watching me? How did he access my medical records? What does he want?

"How do you know that?" My voice sounds strangled even to my own ears.

"I have resources." He says it matter-of-factly, as if invading my medical privacy is perfectly reasonable. "You're not safe, Wil. Our children won't be safe once word gets out."

Our children. The casual claim sends a surge of anger through me, cutting through the fear. This man, this stranger really, walks into my home and starts talking about "our" children as if he has any right to them after one night together.

"Safe from what?" I ask, though I already know the answer. Safe from the world he inhabits, the world of violence and crime that I've only seen in movies.

"From my enemies." He takes a step toward me, and I counter with a step back. "Other families would see you and the babies as leverage against me. As weaknesses to exploit."

"So we're just liabilities to you?" The words come out sharp, fueled by rising indignation.

"No." He runs a hand through his dark hair, a gesture that seems surprisingly human from someone who otherwise holds himself with such rigid control. "You're carrying my children. I want to protect you. All of you. I have an estate outside the city with security, medical facilities?—"

"Stop." I hold up my hand, unable to process everything he's saying. "You expect me to just... What? Move in with you? A complete stranger, who lied about his identity and who apparently has been stalking me and accessing my medical records without my consent?"

His jaw tightens. "I understand this is overwhelming."

"Overwhelming?" I laugh, the sound bitter and slightly hysterical. "This isn't overwhelming. This is insane. You're a criminal. You're asking me to raise children in a world of violence and danger."

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